Page 129 of Maybe You

“Tiny, I swear to God, if you don’t behave, I will lock you in the backyard. Sit.”

A humongous great Dane wags its tail so hard its whole butt is moving left and right.

“Hello,” the woman says. “How can I help you?”

“Your dog is named Tiny?” I ask. I’m pretty sure Tiny would be taller than me if he stood up on his hind legs.

The woman looks down at where the dog is sitting next to her and pats the dog on the head affectionately. “My husband likes Elton John, and when we brought Tiny home from the shelter, ‘Tiny Dancer’ was playing on the radio. The dog went nuts with excitement. My husband said it was a sign. I figured it was fine, until my son thought it would be funny to convince his nine-year-old brothers that Tiny Dancer is a long name and should be shortened to Tiny D.”

I hide my smile. Sutton would think it was funny to do something like that.

The woman—Sutton’s mother—straightens up once she’s decided Tiny can behave. “How can I help you?”

“I…” I lick over my lips, not sure what to say anymore. “My name is Wren,” I say.

The woman stills. Her lips part on an exhale.

We stand in the doorway, staring at each other.

“Wren,” she finally says, and then she seems to gather herself as she smiles at me, tightlipped, but not unfriendly, per se. “Amy.” She sends me a thoughtful look. “I think you’d better come in, Wren.”

She opens the door wider and steps aside.

I stop next to Tiny and hold out my hand. The dog sniffs the back of my hand enthusiastically before he pushes his nose into my palm and starts to lick it.

“He’s a fierce guard dog, as you can see,” Amy says drily. “Something to keep in mind if you ever want to steal a TV, because Tiny Dancer will personally help you carry it out to the van and will also throw in a free dinner and all the laptops in the house.”

She motions for me to follow her, and we end up in her sunny kitchen. Everything is bright and white. A lace curtain flutters in front of a cracked-open window. There’s a fruit bowl set in the middle of the kitchen table and a big vase with sunflowers next to it.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Amy asks, startling me.

“Umm. Water would be nice.”

She takes a glass from one of the cabinets, opens the fridge, takes out a decanter where strawberries, slices of cucumber, and oranges are floating around in water, and pours two glasses.

“Please.” She motions toward the table.

We both take a seat on opposite sides.

Silence.

I study her, and she studies me. Her eyes linger on my arms for a moment too long before they move away. She doesn’t ask.

I try to find similarities between her and Sutton. Eyes. Hair color. Shape of the nose. But there’s barely anything. Her eyes are gray to Sutton’s amber. Her hair is strawberry blond as opposed to Sutton’s dark blond. She’s pretty short, and there’s something almost birdlike in her sharp features and fragile build, while Sutton is tall, lean, and tough.

“So you’re Wren,” Amy says.

“You say that like you know me.” I take a sip of the water to have something to do with myself to ease the intense scrutiny she still hasn’t let up on. A spark of hope lights up my insides.

“I keep in touch with Remy.”

Disappointment makes the water taste sour.

“You can stop glaring at the table,” Amy says. She looks out the window, and when she glances back at me, there’s sadness in her eyes. “My son would never share anything as intensely personal with me as you are. I’ve let him down one time too many over the course of his life.”

I have more questions than answers, but I don’t know where to start, so I stay silent.

Amy sighs and twirls her glass between her fingers.

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